


Precision Dancing

by Storyteller



Category: Batman - Fandom, Iron Man - Fandom
Genre: Bruce Being a Cheeky Asshole, Crossover, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Established Friendship, Hiding Feelings, M/M, Making Out, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Morning After, Stripper pole, Tony Sass, Yet He's Also a Lovable Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storyteller/pseuds/Storyteller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne making out with Tony Stark in public was all just a calculated plan.</p><p>... <i>Or was it?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Precision Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> For GL, who introduced me to this pairing and encouraged my Tony Stark muse.

If questioned by those with intimate knowledge, he would say it wasn’t the play of strobe lighting across exposed, glistening flesh, it wasn’t the provocative sway of hips or the delectable twist of limbs in time to the throbbing bass, and it most certainly wasn’t the tempting curl of fantastic fingers that beckoned him up onto the stage. No, he would claim it was a calculated risk. The discreet paparazzi scattered to the corners of the club were key players, as was the near-full martini glass he carefully set down on the table. To any onlookers – and he was certain there had been at least three throughout the entire night so far – it would appear as though he was on his fourth drink of the night.

If questioned, he would say it wasn’t the spark of life in those glimmering blue eyes that prompted him to slide easily up onto the stage. It wasn’t the inviting quirk of lips that spoke too much sass and hid too many fears.

No, it was all calculated, everything – from the placement of his body to the curl of his fingers around the sweating glass he appropriated from the other man, pinky hooking beneath it for added support. Calculated, too, was the eye contact as he brought the glass to his lips and let the wood-smoked taste of scotch brush against his tongue as he pretended to take a large gulp.

When he brought the glass away, extended his arm, and dropped it from the stage, everything seemed to explode into a flurry of movement, accented by flashing lights and a shift in the song’s harmony.

Bruce Wayne fisted a hand in Tony Stark’s shirt and dragged the other man into a crushing kiss. He felt Tony hook his fingers into one of his front belt loops and tug him forward into the pole that did little to separate them. It was easy to match the gyrations of his hips to the way Tony moved, easy to keep hold of that shirt and simultaneously drag his fingers through the mess of gel Tony liked to call hair whenever they went out on the town. It was easy to tug on that dark hair while he mercilessly ravaged the other man’s mouth, pulling out tastes of alcohol and soft noises of pleasure barely perceptible over the pounding music.

Tony was not idle, and gave as good as he got; his hands were everywhere – no, no that wasn’t right, they were on his hips, sliding up his sides, palming his ass and dragging him against the pole and a warm thigh. This was, perhaps, the only flaw in Bruce’s calculations, but they were easy to adapt to, easy to follow; it was easy to grind his hips where he was lead while maintaining his dominance with deft twists of his tongue.

Also calculated was the meeting of eyes as they pulled away from each other and the song died down, replaced seamlessly with a slower, melody-driven piece. The brush of his fingers against Tony’s alcohol-flushed cheek was another flaw as he disentangled his fingers from the other man’s hair, but he compensated with a knowing smirk and a jerk of his head towards the exit.

* * *

Bruce awoke the next morning to his morning newspaper turned to the headline “Billionaire Bags Billionaire,” complete with a color photo of himself and Tony, stripper pole between them, making out like hormonal high schoolers. With his tea as only a secondary thought, he read through the article with a growing smirk. Apparently, he and Tony had been rendezvousing in secret for months and just now decided to come out of the closet in a shocking display of sincere affection for one another.

That line certainly drew a snort, and as if on cue, his phone dinged with a message notification.

Four texts greeted him:

Tony Stark  
03:21, Jan 16  
Next time, no stripper pole.

03:48, Jan 16  
I’m serious, it left a bruise. What are your thighs made of, concrete?

04:13, Jan 16  
You are no longer allowed to waste excellent scotch.

06:52, Jan 16  
Since we’re out of the closet now with that shocking display of sincere affection, this picture is going up on the fridge. I’m even going to have it framed and hung on my office wall.

Bruce glanced at the newspaper photo again, tracing their near-entwined limbs with his eyes. Calculated planning, all of it, but there was always some fun to be had, despite the precise planning.

By noontime, Tony Stark had received a generous bouquet of red roses, complete with a framed cutout of their newest photo, courtesy of Bruce Wayne.


End file.
